Polly Solves the Riddler

Part 1

Batman left Polly on a street corner like a common whore. She glares at the Batmobile long after it rounds the corner and disappears. A few people milling by look her up and down, taking in her three-day-old jumper and tank-top, messy platinum blonde hair and tattered Converse with looks of pity and disgust. Her glare switches to them until finally no one takes an interest in the twenty-three-year-old who looks more like a sixteen-year-old.

She finds the tracker in her pocket within seconds; either Batman is getting sloppy or she truly is that much smarter than him. Ducking into a secondhand store, she picks out a pair of black sweatpants, a Kelly green long-sleeve, a black zip-up vest with a hood made of the same material as the pants and a three-pack of plain white briefs. She purchases before changing in the dressing room and dumping her old clothes in a trash can, sans the tracker.

That she continues to carry, even in a car that picks her up.

The driver feels up her knee as she directs him where to go. She wants to punch him in the groin or head-butt him in the face, but she doesn't. Perverts like him, ones who actually think she's sixteen and got off on it, always get what is coming to them. Though she does lift a hundred from his wallet when he stalls at a gas station. When he gets back in, she smiles sweet and accepts the rainbow-patterned lollipop he offers her.

Sickening. Her mouth waters with nausea as she thinks about the reality of what this driver is doing. Solidified he'd get what is coming to him, she memorizes his license before she ducks out of his car and disappears into the run-down apartment building.

The tenant in 3-B gives her an odd once-over. An old woman with a wrinkled-pudge face and perpetually squinted eyes; what she lacks in height she makes up for in weight.

"Didn't think I'd see your kind 'round here again," her crackly voice says as she punctuates the comment with a definitive nod.

Polly doesn't respond as she takes the stairs two at a time. The elevator is still busted; one of those broken things that can always be depended on to break.

At their door, she flips over the mat for the extra key. It isn't there. Frowning, she glances down either side of the hallway before trying the knob. Turns without resistant.

Inside their apartment is dark, the lights not turning on when she tries the switches. Neon green, yellow and pink from outside bathe the space enough for her to make it out, though. Make out the smooshed shag carpet, the busted doorframes and molding, and the naked bulb in the kitchen from when he had thrown a book at it her first night here.

Enough neon to make out that the apartment is empty.

Every room. All the cupboards and closets. On top of the fridge where he kept his spare trap parts only boasts thick, grease-laced dust. A secret shelf under the bathroom sink in the way, way back no longer holds all of his riddles' solutions.

As she scours every foot, inch and centimeter on her hands and knees, running from room to room, her face becomes a mask of heat. Her heart thumps up into her throat, and she tugs at the collar of her thin t-shirt. Whoever wore it before did so till its material was nearly nonexistent. She should have purchased a different shirt; one that isn't old and green.

The apartment, empty of possessions, smells like him. His almost crisp, metallic scent that occurs when he's been bent over his workbench too long, mumbling inconsistencies and cussing like a sailor.

 She used to huddle against a door frame just to watch him. Memorize the arch of his shoulders and the ridge of his spine. Every once in a while his eyes would light up, dart to her face, and he'd smirk.